Reverse
by Roxanne15927
Summary: What if it was John Watson on the roof of St. Bart's? Oneshot, no slash.


Reverse

Sherlock swore quietly under his breath when his phone rang.

He immediately picked it up.

"I've been trying to reach you for hours," Sherlock snapped as way of greeting, though he couldn't deny to himself that he was relieved to hear John's voice. He had disappeared a few hours ago, and hadn't returned a single one of Sherlock's texts. The detective wasn't typically one to wonder too much about anyone's whereabouts but his own, but the army doctor had definitely changed that.

Sherlock handed the cabbie a few bills and stepped out of the car, heading towards the building. "Where are you? I've got a breakthrough at the lab and I need you-"

"Sherlock-" John piped up at last, but Sherlock continued on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "-to come with me. It's very important-"

"Sherlock, stop." John said firmly. Normally, this wouldn't faze the detective at all, but John's tone-something was wrong, something was very wrong.

"John?" Sherlock asked uncertainly, but John ignored this.

"Stop where you are." John's voice was hollow. "Turn around and go back the way you came."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "You can see me? Why-"

"Stop being difficult," John said waspishly, but it was tinged with something else. Sherlock heard him take a shaky breath. "Just do it."

Sherlock had a nagging feeling that he knew exactly what was going on, but he did as John asked, turning and heading back toward the street. "Where do you want me?"

"Just there," John responded after a moment. "Stop."

Another shaky breath, and Sherlock waited.

"Look up."

This wasn't happening, it couldn't be happening, why couldn't he be wrong just for once-

"Oh…" Sherlock shook his head. "John, what-what are you doing?" Sherlock tried to remain calm, tried not to appear scared, but he was terrified. He had never been more terrified in all his life, never been so unsure and uncertain as he watched his friend, his only friend, standing on the edge of the rooftop of St. Bart's hospital.

"I can't come down," John's voice came quietly, hoarsely. "We'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked, though he knew exactly what was going on. If he could just figure out a way to talk him down...

"A confession," The doctor said at last. "I'm…I'm not the man you think I am, Sherlock. I'm not as strong as you think I am." His voice broke at the last word.

Something tight was squeezing in Sherlock's chest. "What is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock responded, as coolly as possible. "You're exactly who I think you are. Dr. John Watson, army doctor, captain, you're my partner. Strong, capable. "

"No, I'm not," John interjected weakly.

"Yes, you are," Sherlock said firmly. "You are. And I know you're not a man who runs from his problems instead of facing them."

"You were right all along," John continued, as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. "Everyone was right. About me. About who I am."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm weak," John said. "Slow, stupid. It's what got me shot, you know. Because of the mistakes I made. And I never stopped making them, Sherlock, and I've-I've made such a mess of other people's lives-it's not worth it anymore."

Sherlock shook his head, staring up at John so intensely, as if he stared hard enough he could keep John from stepping forward. "Okay, stop it. Stop it, John. The first day we met, you shot that cabbie for me, remember? You saved my life, a man you had just barely met, without a second thought."

John chuckled flatly. "You didn't need me. You would have been right. You always are."

Though it was difficult to see John's face from Sherlock's position, he could see John shaking his head. "If I hadn't been there, Sherlock, you would have been fine. Nobody needs me."

"I do," Sherlock said immediately. Why didn't John understand, why couldn't he see how important he was-he was missing all the evidence again, even when it was all right in front of him.

John gave a short laugh, but this one was less flat, it almost sounded-grateful?

"You think you do," John said, and his voice shook-"but after this is all over-you'll see the truth."

Sherlock's heart somehow seemed to beat even faster, the pounding roaring in his ears and before he knew it he was moving forward. "Shut up, John. Shut up." He didn't know what his plan was anymore, his mind was failing him at the most important, critical moment-

"_No_!" John's voice came harsher, louder through the phone. "No, stay right where you are. Don't move!" The doctor's voice was shaking even harder now, and Sherlock came to the horrible realization that John was crying.

He stopped dead in his tracks, holding up a hand. "Alright. Alright."

"Stay there," John pleaded. "Just look at me. Please."

John didn't have to ask, Sherlock's eyes had been fixed on his friend from the moment he had seen the doctor standing on the rooftop.

"Please do this for me," John said.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked. He could see John on the rooftop, his hand outstretched, a silent plea, to save him, help him-

"This phone call-it's my note." John said, and Sherlock watched the doctor's hand fall to his side. "I can't stay anymore. I can't."

"Can't-?"

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

"No-John, don't-"

But John didn't listen.

Sherlock watched in dumbstruck horror as his friend tossed his phone away, both arms extended to his side.

"_John_!"

But John didn't listen.

John looked up at the sky, once, then, he looked down, and with arms outstretched as if he was about to fly, he fell.

In that moment, Sherlock's entire world was swallowed up, and his world was nothing but John falling, falling, and there was nothing but the sound of his own heart, and then there was only John, and never had Sherlock wanted so badly to disbelieve the evidence of his own eyes, his own mind. There were a million thoughts racing through his head and at the same time none at all, all screaming at him. He heard the thud as John hit the ground, or maybe he imagined it, but the sound, real or imaginary, was enough to tear it all apart.

And then he was moving, forcing himself to move, his eyes fixed on John's limp body, his name being repeated senselessly in his head over, and over, and another maniacal thought ringing in the back of his mind, _I see you, I see you, I see you_, and with each heavy step he came closer, and he saw the people, he heard them talking and moving but it all meant nothing to him, he had to get to John, make it okay, this couldn't have happened, this couldn't have happened-

Sherlock reached the people, and they were trying to hold him back, and he was begging, begging for the first time in his life-"Please, please-I'm a detective, that's my partner-" The hands didn't stop, pulling at his coat, their chattering voices grating on his eardrums-someone was turning John over-"No, please, let me through, that's my_ friend_-" and he was reaching for John's wrist, John wasn't dead-but before his hand could reach John's, another unfamiliar, strange hand stopped him, pulling him away.

It was then Sherlock saw John's lifeless eyes, saw the doctor's hand fall uselessly, limply to the ground, and then he saw the blood, pooling on the pavement, soaking his friend's hair, staining his neck, covering the side of his face, splashed up onto his forehead, and it all hit Sherlock at once:

John was gone, gone somewhere Sherlock could never reach him.

Then Sherlock was sagging, falling against someone he didn't know, didn't care to know, sinking to the ground, only having eyes for his friend, _dead_-and he could hear John's name being torn from his lips, the sound of his own voice strangled and broken.

Sherlock was being pulled away, and there were people clutching at him and asking him if he was alright, and he would have pushed them all away if it wasn't for John, who was being lifted onto a stretcher by a group of paramedics that had just arrived. The detective was helped to his feet, and he stared as John was wheeled away-

_I did what you asked_, A voice cried in his mind. _I did what you asked, John._

And Sherlock's life was blown apart.

###

Mrs. Hudson patted his hand once Sherlock put on his seat belt, but she didn't say anything, and Sherlock said nothing to her.

Talking never fixed anything.

Mrs. Hudson had been trying to convince the detective for weeks to come with her to visit John's grave, but Sherlock had refused each time. He hated the way she put it, "going to visit John," as if John had just moved away and hadn't-died. It wasn't John there in that cemetery, it was a slab of stone bearing the name of his best friend. It wasn't John they were going to see. They wouldn't see John. John wouldn't see them. In Sherlock's eyes, going to visit the cemetery was pointless. If anything, it only made everything hurt worse than it already did. Away from the cemetery, at least Sherlock could pretend that his friend hadn't left him behind, retreat so far into his mind palace that no person and no pain for that matter could touch him.

But here he was, in a cab with Mrs. Hudson, riding to the cemetery. He didn't know exactly what made him agree at last-perhaps it was the many times of seeing his landlady so pathetically sad at his refusal, seeing how small she looked whenever he said no-whatever it was, he was regretting it now.

Once they arrived, they walked silently, slowly. Mrs. Hudson took Sherlock's arm, clutching tightly, as if she would fall if she did not hold on tightly enough. He knew she was holding back tears as they walked through the graves, making their way to the white marble gravestone at the edge of the cemetery.

They stopped, standing several feet away from the gravestone, and Mrs. Hudson patted his hand again, and released his arm, stepping forward with the large bouquet of flowers and laying it carefully at the gravestone.

She stepped back, taking his arm again. "There. That's better, isn't it?" Her voice was cheery, but it trembled.

Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, staring at the colorful flowers. _No, it's not_, he wanted to say. _It isn't better. Do you think a bunch of flowers really solves anything?_

_Not good, Sherlock_.

Sherlock cringed at this. He didn't want John in his head anymore, his voice, or the memories. It was too much.

Stiffly, he nodded, because he didn't trust himself to say the right words.

"Sherlock?" A small squeeze on his arm. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock scoffed, and was shocked to feel moisture welling up in his eyes. He immediately tried to collect himself, but it took a few moments. "I'm angry," he said at last.

"There's no shame in that," Mrs. Hudson said quietly. "You've bottled up your feelings for so long-ever since-you know."

"I know." Sherlock said.

"And you don't-don't know why-"

"Why he did it?" Sherlock gave a short, cold laugh. "No. I don't."

Mrs. Hudson didn't answer, joining Sherlock in staring at the flowers and the cold gravestone.

Then she spoke. "I-I'll leave you alone to-you know-" Her voice broke, and she gestured at the gravestone. "Talk things out."

'What good would that do?' He wanted to say, but of course he didn't.

Without another word, she turned and walked away.

Sherlock watched her leave, walking carefully and slowly past all the gravestones. When he was sure she was far enough away, he turned back.

**JOHN HAMISH WATSON**

"You…I…" Sherlock started, and then he stopped, chuckling humorlessly. He was talking to a gravestone. A _gravestone_. He had to be losing his mind, because he wanted to. He needed to talk to the gravestone. Because even though John wasn't there, the stone was the only thing he had left that represented John.

So against his better judgment, he spoke.

"You said to me that you were useless. Slow. Stupid. And there were times, few times, where I did think of you as slow. But it didn't bother me then because I think of everyone that way. But you-you were the best man that I have ever known-and no one can convince me-not even you-that you were _ever_ anything less than the best, anything less than my friend."

He stepped forward, and awkwardly, jerkily placed a hand on the top of the stone, feeling the cold marble underneath his fingers.

"I was so alone," Sherlock said, "and I owe you so much more than I can ever say."

He turned abruptly, and made to walk away, when he changed his mind again, whirling back around, stalking back to the gravestone. "Just one thing, John," he said desperately. "Just one more thing. You did everything else for me-can't you do this one last thing for me-"

He choked, choked on his own emotions, and he ran a hand over his face, wanting to get the words out without falling apart. "Don't be dead. Just stop it. Stop this nonsense. Please." His voice broke. "For me. I'd never ask anything else of you. Ever again."

And then something terrible happened.

Sherlock cried.

He only allowed himself a few moments before having to force himself to pull himself together, placing a hand over his mouth to stifle his short, quiet cries.

"Goodbye, John," he said curtly, and he turned around and walked away without looking back.

###

And unbeknownst to Sherlock, John Watson stood behind the trees. He watched Sherlock for a moment, and then, following suit of his friend, turned and walked away.


End file.
